In a clouted coat cut short to the knee,
Wrapped in a winnowing sheet to keep out the weather,
Her bare feet on the bleak ice bled as she went.
At one end of the acre, in a crumb-bowl so small,
A little babe lay, lapped up in rags,
And twins two years old tumbled beside it,
All singing one song that was sorrowful hearing,
For they all cried one cry, a sad note of care.
A year after the siege of Calais, a great sorrow befell all men, for a little ship coming out of the east brought a terrible plague, called the Black Death. And the wind blew the plague from the south to the north, and as it passed, the towns were left desolate, for the rich escaped into the woods and many of the poor died. In Bristol, "the living were scarce able to bury the dead and the grass grew several inches high in Broad Street and High Street."
When the wind reached the border of Scotland, it changed and blew from the north-west and down the eastern coast of England it sped, slaying thousands by the way. When it was gone, the lords could find but few to gather in the harvest and those that were left demanded high wages. Many landowners turned their fields into pastureland. For one shepherd and his dog could look after many sheep and there were merchants in Calais ready to buy English wool.